My Little Table 



rected towards the sun. Gently entreated by 

 the differential and integral calculus, already 

 the formula is beginning to voice itself. My 

 concentration redoubles, my mind is set upon 

 seizing the radiant dawn of truth. 



Suddenly, in the distance, br-r-r-rum ! 

 Br-r-r-rum ! Br-r-r-rum ! The noise comes 

 nearer, grows louder. Woe upon me ! And 

 plague take the Pagoda ! 



Let me explain. I live in a suburb, at the 

 beginning of the Pernes Road, far from the 

 tumult of the town. 1 Twenty yards in front 

 of my house, some pleasure-gardens have been 

 opened, bearing a sign-board inscribed, 'The 

 Pagoda.' Here, on Sunday afternoons, the 

 lads and lasses from the neighbouring farms 

 come to disport themselves in country-dances. 

 To attract custom and push the sale of re- 

 freshments, the proprietor of the ball ends 

 the Sunday hop with a tombola. Two hours 

 beforehand, he has the prizes carried along 

 the public roads, preceded by fifes and drums. 

 From a beribboned pole, borne by a stalwart 

 fellow in a red sash, dangle a plated goblet, a 

 handkerchief of Lyons silk, a pair of candle- 

 sticks and some packets of cigars. Who 



J The town of Carpentras, where Fabre was a master 

 at the college. Pernes is about a mile from Car- 

 pentras. — Translator's Note. 



3ii 



